shit.
Just…shit.
T HE MAN WAS DRIVING to his job as a security guard in Iowa City when he heard Priscilla Jayne’s name mentioned on the radio. Keeping one eye on the truck tailgating him down Highway 38 as he slowed for the approach to I-80, he reached over and turned up the volume.
“—so stay tuned,” the DJ said. “This is Dan the Man McVann and the morning crew. We’ll be right back to talk a little smack with Priscilla Jayne after these brief messages from our sponsor.”
The man didn’t find them all that brief and he fidgeted in his seat as he waited for the interminable commercials to cease. He’d written three letters to Priscilla Jayne this spring but hadn’t received so much as a single reply in return. They’d been wonderfully flattering notes, too—well, at least the first two. The one he’d written last Saturday had rightly taken her to task over her lack of respect for her mother.
“And we’re back!” The DJ’s voice broke into the man’s growing agitation. “This morning’s guest is Priscilla Jayne, whose new CD Watch Me Fly we’ve been watching fly off the shelves at an amazing rate since hitting the stores last week. Welcome!”
“Thank you, Dan,” said the raspy voice the man remembered from the show he’d seen her on. “I’m happy to be here.”
“As I just mentioned to our listeners, your new CD is burning up the charts.”
“Yes, isn’t it great?” Her laughter rolled out of the speakers. “It seems to be doing very well, and I’m so grateful to my fans for their support.”
The man, who had found himself smiling at the rich sound of her laugh, scowled. “Then you might try responding when they go to the trouble of writing you.”
“Your critically acclaimed debut album Outside Looking In spent a record ten weeks atop the Country Albums Chart and has been certified double platinum for sales in excess of two million,” Dan the Man said. “Do you find it daunting knowing how much your sophomore album has to live up to?”
“It scares the bejeebers out of me if I let myself think about it too long or too hard,” she agreed. “But I try to just take everything day by day. I’m very proud of Watch Me Fly and hope my audience will find the album as singable as I do. I love the entire project, but if listeners take away nothing else I have faith that they’ll at least enjoy a song or two. I believe we’ve got some really great singles on this CD.”
“I guess so!” the DJ heartily concurred. “‘Let the Party Begin’ debuted at number three on Billboard’s Country Album Chart and ‘Crying Myself to Sleep’ at number seven.”
“It’s been an excellent week,” she said in that easy, friendly voice. “Unfortunately, I spent most of it driving cross-country to get to Portland, where I played my first concert on the new tour last night. So I haven’t had much time to savor it.”
“Speaking of your cross-country drive, I wonder if you could put to rest a rumor that’s going around,” the DJ said.
The man went on alert but instead of asking about Priscilla Jayne’s mother the way he should have, McVann said, “Some of the journals are claiming you were spotted playing all kinds of bars across the West last week. True or false?”
The DJ’s “morning crew” chimed in with their guesses, but the man ignored them as he awaited Priscilla Jayne’s response.
“That’s actually true,” she said. “I got my start playing honky-tonks and clubs. Plus, growing up I lived in—man, I can’t even tell you how many wide-spot-in-the-road towns. I had a week to kill on my way to Portland, so I stopped along the way at some taverns in a few small towns and jammed with the local bands.”
“That must have thrilled them.”
“It thrilled me to play with so many gifted musicians. The truth is a good part of this business comes down to blind luck. There’s so much talent out there, even if much of it never goes any further than playing gigs
Just…shit.
T HE MAN WAS DRIVING to his job as a security guard in Iowa City when he heard Priscilla Jayne’s name mentioned on the radio. Keeping one eye on the truck tailgating him down Highway 38 as he slowed for the approach to I-80, he reached over and turned up the volume.
“—so stay tuned,” the DJ said. “This is Dan the Man McVann and the morning crew. We’ll be right back to talk a little smack with Priscilla Jayne after these brief messages from our sponsor.”
The man didn’t find them all that brief and he fidgeted in his seat as he waited for the interminable commercials to cease. He’d written three letters to Priscilla Jayne this spring but hadn’t received so much as a single reply in return. They’d been wonderfully flattering notes, too—well, at least the first two. The one he’d written last Saturday had rightly taken her to task over her lack of respect for her mother.
“And we’re back!” The DJ’s voice broke into the man’s growing agitation. “This morning’s guest is Priscilla Jayne, whose new CD Watch Me Fly we’ve been watching fly off the shelves at an amazing rate since hitting the stores last week. Welcome!”
“Thank you, Dan,” said the raspy voice the man remembered from the show he’d seen her on. “I’m happy to be here.”
“As I just mentioned to our listeners, your new CD is burning up the charts.”
“Yes, isn’t it great?” Her laughter rolled out of the speakers. “It seems to be doing very well, and I’m so grateful to my fans for their support.”
The man, who had found himself smiling at the rich sound of her laugh, scowled. “Then you might try responding when they go to the trouble of writing you.”
“Your critically acclaimed debut album Outside Looking In spent a record ten weeks atop the Country Albums Chart and has been certified double platinum for sales in excess of two million,” Dan the Man said. “Do you find it daunting knowing how much your sophomore album has to live up to?”
“It scares the bejeebers out of me if I let myself think about it too long or too hard,” she agreed. “But I try to just take everything day by day. I’m very proud of Watch Me Fly and hope my audience will find the album as singable as I do. I love the entire project, but if listeners take away nothing else I have faith that they’ll at least enjoy a song or two. I believe we’ve got some really great singles on this CD.”
“I guess so!” the DJ heartily concurred. “‘Let the Party Begin’ debuted at number three on Billboard’s Country Album Chart and ‘Crying Myself to Sleep’ at number seven.”
“It’s been an excellent week,” she said in that easy, friendly voice. “Unfortunately, I spent most of it driving cross-country to get to Portland, where I played my first concert on the new tour last night. So I haven’t had much time to savor it.”
“Speaking of your cross-country drive, I wonder if you could put to rest a rumor that’s going around,” the DJ said.
The man went on alert but instead of asking about Priscilla Jayne’s mother the way he should have, McVann said, “Some of the journals are claiming you were spotted playing all kinds of bars across the West last week. True or false?”
The DJ’s “morning crew” chimed in with their guesses, but the man ignored them as he awaited Priscilla Jayne’s response.
“That’s actually true,” she said. “I got my start playing honky-tonks and clubs. Plus, growing up I lived in—man, I can’t even tell you how many wide-spot-in-the-road towns. I had a week to kill on my way to Portland, so I stopped along the way at some taverns in a few small towns and jammed with the local bands.”
“That must have thrilled them.”
“It thrilled me to play with so many gifted musicians. The truth is a good part of this business comes down to blind luck. There’s so much talent out there, even if much of it never goes any further than playing gigs
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